


like real people do

by tnevmucric



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Metaverse (Persona 5), Childhood Sweethearts, First Kiss, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: “we’re a long way from honeycomb afternoons”, he says eventually, and akira smiles: small and barely dimpling, the stretch of his lips showing the sheen of his teeth. goro remembers watching them sink into the slabs of dripping honey at 13. he blinks.he supposes it’s no surprise they’ve ended up here.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro & Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	like real people do

He was always sunburnt, Goro thought a little wildly, just along the curve of his cheeks and nose: something that might turn out to be rosacea in spring. The redness made his eyes almost seem green. “We’re a long way from honeycomb afternoons”, he says and Akira smiles; small and barely dimpling, the stretch of his lips showing the sheen of his teeth. Goro remembers watching them sink into the slabs of dripping honey at 13. He blinks.

He supposes it’s no surprise they’ve ended up here.

“I guess we are”, Akira replies indifferently. There’s an itch under Goro’s sweater.

How abruptly you pressed your cold hands to my cheeks, he wants to say, like archaic defibrillation. Closer and closer a raw, warm feeling had sparked within me, branding me as someone I didn’t want to know. You kissed me, and I could feel myself stare. I pushed you away but I could still taste your mouth, feel the hint of snow that had wet your fingers from when you’d brushed sleet from my coat. I might have been shaking, I should have let go of your arms, but instead came to the awful conclusion that _I was in love_ , Akira, and so I kissed you again. 

He tries not to look Akira in the eyes.

There is a hasty scrawl on note paper in the kitchen of an apartment in Shibuya. The handwriting is mismatched; both crushed and awkwardly spaced, stagnant and cutting into the thin paper—this handwriting does not belong to Goro Akechi, his coworkers would say. No, his handwriting’s quite lovely. We always ask him to write the birthday message in whoever’s card it is that month. Goro spots it on his fridge now, somewhere behind Akira’s head, half folded and creased in several places from where he had wrung it in his hands. No one knows the words, save himself and one strange vigilante—leaving messages in lockers, Goro remembers thinking at 16, vaguely unimpressed, scarcely terrified at the way the message had bloomed heat in his belly; he always thought he was one for the more direct approach, was confident that those around him knew this fact, knew that perhaps he didn’t care quite enough to read subtle injections of intention.

It felt nice to be liked like this, he had thought, he remembers now while staring past Akira at their opposing sides of the couch: it had been nice to be admired so sweetly, so indulgently.

The wind chime hanging from the sliding doors of his balcony sing quietly. There’s an array of mugs at the kitchen sink and creased pillows that had dotted the two-seater couch were thrown aside, a heavy blanket halfway to the floor. Goro looks at all of this; looks at his stained sweatshirt and feels his greasy hair. Ann’s left a tube of lipgloss on his coffee table and judging by the square of empty space in his DVD shelf, Futaba has helped herself to his collectors edition of Lost In Space. Haru has him growing lavender in a small pot on the balcony. There’s a suspicious lack of dust in a section of the television unit where Ryuji pulls out stacked books to plug in his gaming console. Makoto wants him to finish reading a crime novel that’s been left on the counter, that he’ll read a few pages of every morning with his coffee even though he knows already that the protagonist detective is the killer. Yusuke painted his salt shaker indigo and stained a patch of his carpet gold. 

And here Akira is. Mismatched socks absently tapping against Goro’s bare feet, their backs to either arm rest, a silence between them that indicates change, that makes space for the special scrutiny only new lovers know.

Akira does then speak again, and his smile skews slightly, turns more into a grimace. His fingers twist at the strings of his hoodie but he keeps his eyes somewhere along the bridge of Goro’s nose. “Having second thoughts?”

“I don’t know”, Goro finds himself answering honestly, and apparently he can’t meet Akira’s eyes either but at least he’s not staring at the fridge, at that stupid piece of paper.

Staring at the crease between Akira’s eyebrows doesn’t make him feel much better. 

“What was the combination to my shoe locker in high school?”, he asks with a burst of courage that isn’t his own. Akira’s laugh is neither sheepish nor shy, but tired and soft above the windchime, and Akira’s eyes, finally dragging to stare at Goro completely, are warm. A hook. 

“06-18-28”, he replies. 

Goro sinks.

“I’m not sure I would be good to you”, Goro says, trudging further into honest waters. It’s an unhealthy confession, one that makes his brain scream  _danger! Danger, Goro Akechi!_

“Any particular reason?”, Akira asks lightly. Goro shakes his head, drags his body down to hunch over his knees, not ready to pull his feet away from where Akira has decided to play footsies.

“Not really”, he replies, though he’s sure there is a reason. “It’s on my mind.” _You’re on my mind._

“I think you’re letting yourself get caught up in the complicated things”, Akira counters. “Whether I have you in my life as a friend or anything else, I’ll be happy just because you’re in my life. If you really don’t think we’ll work out, then I’ll respect your decision and we’ll stay friends, I won’t mention this ever again”, hesitantly he touches Goro’s hand, a quick skim of their fingers like a passing wave. “I want to try, though. I want to buy you flowers and stupid things that make me think of you and I want to cook for you and—and I wanna hold your hand.” His cheeks are bright pink and Goro thinks about things locked tightly away—graduation, where Akira bought him a bouquet. Walks to school where Akira would swing their hands between them. Nights at Leblanc where he’d watch Akira cook curry and sweet strawberry cake.

“You love me”, Goro states and tries to ignore the awful sound of yearning in his voice.

“Yeah”, Akira replies, with no hesitation at all. 

Goro feels like crying, feels the clench in his throat like swallowing fire, like a swelling oesophagus, like third-degree burns trying to set his stomach acid alight. He’s shaking, just as he’d been when they’d kissed.

I might have loved you since I was 12, he imagines confessing.

The reflection of life outside of this Shibuya apartment casts a cool glow on Akira’s face, one that hints of bluer skies and dimming lights from the gas station across the street. Perhaps not such a moonlit night.

Goro holds out his hand and Akira meets him halfway, locking their fingers and smoothing his thumb in an attempt to calm—

Goro might be calm, now. He might have been calm the minute Akira showed up at his apartment, midnight and trodding the floor in squeaky tennis shoes, deadpan voice coming through the door as Goro pretended not to be home: _“I can see your feet under the door.”_

“Stay the night”, Goro says now. “I’d really like it if you stayed the night.” Akira smiles again, but it’s wide and fond and maybe giddy. Definitely giddy. He slumps forward less than gracefully and smothers his lips against Goro’s knuckles, laughing high and bright when Goro recoils to wipe the saliva onto Akira’s sweatpants. He is undeterred: he leans forward again, with more purpose, and drags Goro in by the cheek for a kiss. Goro feels his fists tighten in his lap, unsure of where to be. He likes it. He loves it. Akira leans further into his space and Goro jolts to catch him by the hip, their knees bumping and another laugh bubbling from behind Akira’s teeth. Akira’s lips taste like toothpaste, and Goro can smell remnants of his shampoo.

“I’m happy”, Akira says when Goro asks, and tucks his hair behind his ear. “I’m happy and I love you. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

Goro replies in the only way he thinks might be right.

“Favourite colour”, he says, leaning back to look at Akira who looks amazed. High-school was harsh and high-school pertained of Akira asking every day what his favourite colour was—because it was good to have a different one each day. Because he can, Goro tugs his fingers through Akira’s hair and stares up at him, let’s the weight of their hearts beat against each other and focuses on Akira’s eyes through the dark.

“Green”, Akira says, and he’s smiling. “Just plain green.”

(The green that hides under snow covered pines, the green of Akira’s sweater beneath that moth-bitten jacket, the neon green laces of his running shoes, the murky green of peppermint and honey tea. Green that means: _go, go, go._ )

“Funny”, Goro replies. “Mine too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!
> 
> — tnevmucric.carrd.co


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